


Birthday Boy

by adinarj, fulfilled



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-05
Updated: 2006-10-05
Packaged: 2018-05-01 08:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5199962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adinarj/pseuds/adinarj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulfilled/pseuds/fulfilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the summer, adinarj and I decided to challenge each other to write two related one-shots, so this is what I wrote for her, while we were sitting in Central Park, in line for tickets to That Scottish Play (and while we were riding the subway back to my house, and while we were trying to watch TV, and…). For the other half, read "Brothers," by adinarj.</p><p>Originally published October 5, 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Boy

For the first time in years, the date hit him before he opened his eyes, and he groaned, pulling the sheet up over his face with one hand and rolling onto his back, the other hand falling off the edge of the bed. Why this year? No one had taken any particular notice of May 14 in years—Jess himself had stopped giving it more than a cursory thought years ago, letting his mind jump from the 13th to the 15th without skipping a beat.

He cracked open an eye, grimacing as the sunlight streaming in through the east-facing window blinded him, and groped aimlessly on the small table beside his bed, knocking a book onto the floor, until his fingers touched the cool metal of his watch.

He opened the other eye, blinking rapidly to focus, trying to make sense of the too-tiny hands. 6:17, his brain finally registered. The hell? Why was he awake so early? Slowly, the noises of the morning filtered through his haze, and he began to differentiate between the individual sounds.

Footsteps padding into the kitchen—barefoot; had to be Chris. Matthew wouldn't be caught dead walking through the house barefoot. Water running in the kitchen, the beep of the microwave timer being set, the coffee starting to percolate, more footsteps, water running in the bathroom.

Jess rolled back onto his stomach with a groan, pulling the pillow over his head and trying to burrow as far into the mattress as he could. Today of all days, he wanted to sleep, at least until the alarm forced him out of bed.

Mind over matter, right? If he closed his eyes and lay perfectly still, his body would get the hint, right?

Ten minutes later, he checked his watch again, sighing in resignation and pushing the blankets off. Nope—the 'mind over matter' thing hadn't worked when he was a kid; why would he think it would work now? Wishful thinking, he supposed. By now, may as well face the day head on, or some cheesy cliché like that.

Jess staggered into the kitchen, still blinking against the light, running one hand through his unruly hair and scratching his bare belly right above the waistband of his grey sweatpants with the other. His face stretched involuntarily into a huge yawn, which he made no effort to cover.

Chris' laugh pulled him into reality. "If only I had a camera," he commented, coming out of the bathroom with a towel slung around his waist, rubbing his curly hair with another, the ringlets made even tighter by the shower. "I could post embarrassing pictures of Jess Mariano, soon-to-be-famous author, on the internet and make a fortune.

"Shut _up_ ," Jess muttered, his voice still thick with sleep.

"You could stage a Paris Hilton-esque sex video with—what's her name?" Chris fished. "The chick from the bookstore in Boston—you know, the one who calls every three days to keep you 'updated' on your book?"

"No clue what you're talking about," Jess said, pulling a coffee mug down from a shelf just above his head.

"Sure you do—come on, what's her name? Jenny? Julie? Janna? Jessie? Jenna? Janice? Jordan? Joanne?"

"Shut up," Jess groaned, slamming the cupboard shut with a bit more force than necessary. "No pictures, no internet, no sex videos—with Jeana or anyone else!"

"Suit yourself," Chris shrugged, "but when I'm in the poorhouse because you denied me my only chance at fame and fortune, I hope you know you'll be supporting me."

"Why would you be famous for my vid—you know what?" Jess cut himself off. "Never mind. I want no part in knowing how your mind works."

"Suit yourself." Chris opened the fridge, pulled out a carton of orange juice, and took a look drink straight from the spout. Jess grimaced, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot that had started brewing at 6:25 sharp, when Chris, the first one up, usually rolled out of bed. It was fresher today than Jess usually got, and by the time Matthew got up, it was still hot, but starting to get slightly stale, since, for all his picky tendencies, he was still the last one up most mornings, barely making it downstairs by 9:00 some days.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Chris threw over his shoulder on his way back to his room.

"Thanks," Jess responded, distracted, digging in the cupboard for the sugar bowl. "Wait—" he straightened up, finding it. "How'd you know it's my birthday?"

Chris stuck his head back into the kitchen. "Those," he said, gesturing to two boxes—one large, one smaller—on the kitchen table. "The big one came earlier in the week; the little one came yesterday. Your mom called the office when you were out and asked me to hide them until today."

Jess stared at the doorway for a minute after Chris disappeared. Liz had what? That was too… Mom-ish for her.

Curiosity got the best of him, and he took the boxes into the living room, balancing his cup of coffee on top. A quick glance at the clock told him it was still earlier than he would normally be up, and he still had plenty of time to kill before work.

Picking up a pen sitting on the coffee table, Jess slit the tape on the smaller box, revealing a plain white envelope sitting on top of a Tupperware container. When he pulled the non-descript birthday card out of the envelope, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and as he bent to pick it up, he flipped open the card. Four words, aside from the pre-printed greeting. "Jess," at the top, "Happy Birthday. Luke," at the bottom, in his uncle's distinctive, messy scrawl, with a check for—he picked it up and looked at the amount—$100. Jess chuckled, not surprised by the gift at all. Luke was one of the only people who had consistently remembered Jess' birthday over the years, even though he'd given up on sending actual gifts when Jess was 10.

The Tupperware surprised him, though—usually, there was just the card and check. He popped open the lid, unnaturally thrilled to see two dozen homemade, blueberry-bran muffins. _Definitely losing the "cool" edge_ , he thought—who would have thought that muffins would be the best birthday present yet?

Still chuckling, he took a big bite out of the top of a muffin, set the rest of them aside, and pulled the other box toward him with his free hand. The thing was huge—if it was sitting on the floor, it would have almost reached his knees—and Liz had adjusted her loopy handwriting to fill the entire top with his address.

When he pulled open the top, he almost choked on his muffin. Inside were four brightly wrapped boxes, each one festooned with tight curls of ribbon and numbered with a construction paper cutout taped to the top. Apparently, she was trying to make up for the "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul" that she'd given him for Christmas, which was currently buried somewhere under his bed, if he remembered right.

Pushing Luke's box to the side with one foot, Jess leaned back against the couch cushions, pulled out the box marked "1," the biggest one, which was unusually heavy, and ripped the paper off, not bothering to save it.

The books inside the box, a heavy weight pressing down on his legs, made him catch his breath. They were beautiful—if books could be described as gorgeous, and in his world, they could, these were the most breath-taking ones he'd ever seen. Two leather-bound volumes, the pages rich and thick, the embossed titles winking up at him, awaited his touch. "Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged," and its smaller companion, "Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Thesaurus," and as he flipped through the pages reverently, his awe grew. They were perfect. And they had come from Liz.

He checked the dictionary's flyleaf, wondering if she'd had the foresight to inscribe it, not really believing she would. The front page, though, had a slightly whimsical sketch—reminiscent of the tiny cartoons that Liz used to draw for Jess when he was a child and hang on their fridge—of two champagne glasses toasting each other. Underneath, in highly stylized script, Liz had simply written, "To the future. May 14, 2006."

Huh. This definitely made up for "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul." Jess lost himself in the pristine, untouched words that were just waiting to be explored and devoured. Time ceased to exist as he flipped through the book, still amazed at Liz' once-in-a-lifetime shot at finding the right thing, until a loud, metallic buzz filled the apartment, shocking him out of his trance.

Looking around, he waited for Matthew to hit the snooze, only realizing when the noise refused to stop that it was his alarm, which he hadn't turned off when he woke up before it went off.

Setting the books aside, Jess rolled off the couch with a groan and stretched his arms behind his back as he walked back toward the bedrooms, pounding on Matthew's door as he passed. He slapped the alarm off and pulled the top blanket off his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders as he headed back to the living room, too intrigued by the rest of the box's contents to leave them until later.

"Get up, Matthew!" he yelled, banging on the door again.

A muffled groan came from inside, and Chris emerged from his room, laughing. "It's pointless, man," he chided.

Jess smirked back. "Gotta keep trying—one of these days, he'll make it to work on time," he said, reclaiming his spot on the couch, pulling out the second box, which was much smaller and lighter than the first, and rattled when he picked it up.

There was an envelope on this one, and inside was a single piece of paper, reading, "I found this in a box of stuff in Luke's storage facility—thought you might want to hang onto it."

His interest piqued, Jess tore into the small box, shaking ten small GI Joe soldiers into his hand. Picking one up, he ran his fingers over it, tracing each plastic contour, and closed his eyes as long-buried childhood memories washed over him.

He'd been five the year he got them for Christmas—they were the only item on his letter to Santa that had found their way under the tree, and he'd carried them everywhere. They'd ridden around in his backpack, gone to Stars Hollow to visit Luke, fought battles in the dirt of the run-down playground down the block, and stood guard over his desk at school, tucked in along the sides for his fingers to brush when he reached in to pull something out.

Jess sighed, unconsciously pulling the blanket more tightly around his chest and squeezing his eyelids momentarily before opening them and leaning forward. He grabbed another muffin and bit off a big piece, washing it down with a gulp of now-tepid coffee.

He remembered that Christmas vividly now, even though he hadn't thought about it in years. It had been the second-last year he'd written a letter to Santa. The GI Joes had bolstered him, fueling his hopes through a birthday with no gifts from his list, until the next Christmas came, the letter was sent, and none of the gifts were what he'd asked for.

Oh, it wasn't as though he'd gotten no gifts—Liz had actually been working that year—but they weren't what he really wanted. Jess balled up the wrapping paper in his hands, tossing the colorful ball across the room, trying to release the tension. Some birthday present, he thought, shrugging off the blanket, suddenly too warm. Gifts were supposed to be mindless, fun, impractical. They weren't supposed to take him back.

Even so, his heart melted a little at the row of tiny soldiers lined up on the coffee table. The straight line caught his eye and, despite himself, he began to chuckle. That five-year-old was still buried deep inside, apparently. Old, long-forgotten habits hung on, and even at 22, he could no more leave them in disarray than he could have at five.

Jess reached and adjusted one of the toys with a single finger before pulling the third box, slightly bigger than the last one, onto his lap. The morning noises filtered into his consciousness again, getting busier and louder, and he could hear Matthew finally running the shower.

"Jess?" Chris poked his head around the door.

"Yeah?" Jess turned the top half of his body to face Chris over the back of the couch, feeling his back crack all the way down as he did.

"Everything okay?" Chris asked, coming into the room to gather up a manuscript that he'd brought up with him from the office the night before. "Were you planning to come in late today?"

"Huh?" Jess glanced at the glowing clock on the VCR. 8:37. There was no way he'd make it down to the office in 23 minutes—not with Matthew still in the bathroom. "Nah, I lost track of time. But I guess I will be late. I'll be in by ten."

"Slacker," Chris threw over his shoulder, his grin belying his words.

"Yeah, well, just get Matthew to work on time, and you'll more than make up for me being late today."

A doorbell rang, cutting through the apartment. Jess rolled his eyes in Chris' direction. "Tell me again—why doesn't Nathan have his own key to the office?"

"Because if he did, he wouldn't hold back until 8:45 to get to work—he'd be here at 6:30, and the rest of us would feel too guilty for not starting until 9:00, and our slacker natures would be threatened?" Chris suggested.

"Or maybe Dan just forgot to get an extra key cut for him. Again." Jess threw a muffin across the room. "Have a muffin and get your ass downstairs. You're letting him in today—it's my birthday, and I'm not going in until late."

Chris peeled off the wrapper, dropping it in the kitchen garbage can on the way down. "See you later," he mumbled, mouth full. Ten seconds later, his head appeared around the corner again. "These are good!" he enthused, reaching in to snatch another one before leaving.

Jess pulled the third box into his lap, pulling off the paper more carefully this time. Inside, a plain, business-sized envelope sat on top of a pile of toys. Curious, Jess opened the envelope, pulling out a worn piece of paper, almost coming apart at the folds. A date—December 5, 1989—was stamped on the top with a library stamp. The perimeter of the page was decorated with pre-printed holly, stars, Christmas trees, and bells, all of which had been carefully colored with wax crayons, the colors as bright now as they had been when they were first drawn.

The center of the page was lined, and Jess caught his breath as he recognized his own laborious printing.

"Der Santa," he read, closing his eyes briefly to process, then opening them and reading the rest of the letter. "I have ben a very good boy. I want a 2 weel bik and new craons and some cars and a oprashun game and a gi joe. Mabee a puppy or a baby bruthr. From Jess Michael Mariano."

Jess smiled slightly at the flourish with which he'd written his name, obviously proud of his proficiency in that area. It was a short list for a five-year-old—even at that age, he must have been cognizant of their limitations. He didn't remember a specific day when he was told that there wasn't money for toys and games; he just knew—he'd always known—that those were extras. He usually had warm enough clothes that fit, and even in her worst days, Liz was pretty good about making sure there was some sort of food in the house, even if he had to cook it himself. Toys, though, were a different story, and yet he didn't remember, at that age, being bitter about it. That came later.

Slowly, he lowered the letter to his lap and as he did, a faded pencil inscription on the back caught his eye. "Jess, kindergarten," had been written in Liz' handwriting, and suddenly Jess remembered writing the letter in Mrs. Taylor's kindergarten class, then taking it home to be mailed to Santa. It had disappeared from his backpack, and Liz had assured him that she'd mailed it. And that year, with the GI Joes under the tree, he'd been satisfied with the explanation. It had never occurred to him, even has he'd gotten older, that she might have kept it, and an unexpected lump rose in his throat.

A picture came to his mind of a 21-year-old girl—now officially younger than him—with a preschooler that she'd never really wanted and didn't know how to deal with. He'd never thought of it that way before, and it didn't negate the years of hurt and absence, but somehow, he felt a sympathy towards his mother that he'd never felt before.

Jess tucked the letter into a book that was sitting on the coffee table, not wanting it to get lost among the wrapping paper, and looked into the box. These toys, unlike the GI Joes, were all new, and he had to laugh out loud as he pulled a package of six matchbox cars; a 128-pack of Crayolas, complete with the sharpener in the back; a thick sketchpad; a still-shrink-wrapped game of "Operation;" and a small metal bicycle that was obviously designed to stand on a mantle or a desk. Jess wondered what new guilt trip had triggered the onslaught of presents, but he had to admit, it was kind of cute. Sweet, in a, "forgive me for your crappy childhood," kind of way.

"What's so funny?" Matthew asked, racing through the kitchen on his way down the stairs.

"Present from my mom," Jess replied, still chuckling over the gift.

"Cool," Matthew said, picking up a coffee mug to take down with him. "You coming?"

"Later," Jess said, getting up off the couch to refill his own coffee mug.

"You feeling okay?" Matthew asked, suddenly concerned. "You're not sick or anything?"

"Nah," Jess reassured him. "Just being a little lazy this morning. Birthday present to myself."

"Okay," Matthew shrugged, starting down the steps. "See you later."

Taking a sip of the hot coffee, Jess picked up the open boxes and carried them into his bedroom, stacking them beside his bed, needing to stretch after sitting on the couch for so long. A piece of paper taped to the bottom of the last box he'd opened caught his eye as he was taking it to the recycling pile, and he peeled it off. "I didn't mean to take 17 years to give these to you. You're on your own for the puppy, though."

He smirked, trying to picture a puppy in the apartment. Matthew would hate the dog hair everywhere and be vacuuming constantly, Chris would try to sneak it too many kitchen scraps and spoil it to death, and Jess… well, he actually wouldn't mind. A dog might be nice, but not here. Not yet. Maybe when he got his own place. Besides, there was too much of a chance that it could get into the office here, and Jess could only imagine the havoc that a puppy could wreak with that much paper lying around.

Jess made a mental note to call both Luke and Liz later on in the day to thank them for the gifts. Maybe he'd make plans to head up to Stars Hollow and have dinner with them while he was still in a familial mood. He thought through his schedule for the next week as he put the muffins on the kitchen counter and set the dictionary and thesaurus on the kitchen table, to take downstairs with him when he went. Actually, he had a couple of free evenings in the next few weeks, and could probably swing it to stay overnight and drive back the following morning, if dinner went late. He'd have to suggest it.

One box left, smaller and lighter than the others. Jess draped the blanket over his shoulders and picked up the box, carrying both of them with him into his bedroom, pulling off the paper as he walked. He really needed to get in the shower and get ready for work—as interesting, touching, and unexpected as the gifts had been, the rest of the day was calling, beginning with a full voicemail inbox, including, most likely, one from Jeana. The woman just didn't take a hint—she just wasn't his type, but she didn't seem to get that. He sighed, tossing the wrapping paper into a garbage can on his way by. He'd deal with her later, though.

His fingers touched fabric when he pulled the top of the box open, and he wrinkled his forehead as he pulled out a t-shirt. A t-shirt? Somehow, it didn't jive with the rest of the gifts that Liz had sent. This trip down memory lane, this acknowledgement of his future—those, he got. But a black t-shirt?

Jess dropped the box on the floor beside his dresser and shook out the garment as he tossed it onto the top of his dresser, the light blue lettering on the front catching his eye for the first time. The words didn't register at first, just grazing his consciousness as he set the shirt to the side and opened a dresser drawer to pull out his clothes for the day. His hand was halfway to a clean pair of socks when the words he'd just read permeated his brain and he reacted.

He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he pulled the shirt down again, spreading it out on the bed to make sure he wasn't missing anything—that the words weren't wrinkled, making him mis-read them.

No, it was still the same as it had been thirty seconds earlier. Jess blinked, then started to laugh, the only reaction he could conjure up in the interminable seconds that seemed to tick by as he processed the information.

"I'm The Big Brother."

The words stared up at him, daring him to read them just one more time, just to make sure they were accurate. "I'm the big brother," he read aloud, shaking his head the entire time.

 _Well_ , was the first coherent thought that crossed his mind, _I guess that, between TJ and the baby, Liz is going to have two kids to take care of now_.

Letter to Santa, indeed.


End file.
